The Wicked Trade (The Forensic Genealogist Book 7), Nathan Goodwin [little red riding hood ebook TXT] 📗

He had not said so, but Jonas would have much preferred a case more localised to Westminster. Having rounded up the Aldington smuggling gang just two nights ago, he was exhausted. The magistrate, Sir Richard Birnie, had handed him and Nightingale this new case, saying that, as often happened, their services had been requested personally.

‘What do we know about this case?’ Nightingale asked from the seat beside him.

Jonas drew a breath. ‘Gentleman by the name of Isaac Bull—a local landowner—has had several properties damaged by arson. He’s of the belief that they are protests or revenge attacks and that the identity of the culprit is probably known locally, but he’s being protected.’

Nightingale nodded.

Just like the investigation into the Aldington smuggling gang, it wouldn’t be especially difficult; it would just take time to gain the trust of the locals. If they could induce Mr Bull into offering a reward, all the better.

They arrived at the Red Lion Inn, on the outskirts of the town, under the welcome cover of darkness. Its location and the obscurity offered from the early evening duskiness suited Jonas; the fewer people who noticed their arrival, the better.

The two men stepped from the post-chaise with their cases and took a cursory glance at the public house. It was a typical affair, detached with Kent peg tiles on the roof and upper storey. The ground floor walls were whitewashed and, through the small windows, Jonas could make out the shapes of movement behind the glow of candlelight. This would be their home for the coming days or weeks ahead, depending on how long the case would take. With the exhaustion, which he currently felt, he was certainly in no hurry to wrap it up quickly and rush back to Bow Street.

‘Come on,’ Jonas said, moving around to the rear of the property in search of the back entrance.

They stopped at a solid oak door. Jonas tried to turn the ring handle, but it was locked. With a crooked index finger, he tapped four times. When nobody answered, he banged again, this time more loudly.

An irritated man—a good two foot shorter than Jonas—yanked open the door and glowered up at him. ‘What?’

Jonas smiled at the greeting. ‘Mr Blackwood and,’ he said, stepping to one side, ‘Mr Nightingale. I believe our appointment, via the tradesmen’s entrance, was expected?’

‘Aye,’ he said, still apparently irked, as he allowed them inside. ‘Mr Bull be here soon. He got you a private room. There be a drink each in there, compliments of Mr Bull.’ The short man pointed to a closed door to their right. ‘In there.’

‘Thank you kindly,’ Jonas said, opening the door and entering a small but comfortable room. It was wooden-panelled in dark oak, with several lit candlesticks fixed to the walls. A good fire fizzed in the hearth, which, judging by the warmth of the room, had evidently been lit for some time. In the centre of the room were three chairs, tucked under a table which was draped in a white cloth, upon which were three filled glasses.

Jonas set down his case and gratefully reached for the drink. He took a long gulp: rum, water and something bitter, whisky, perhaps. He sighed with the warm pleasure of the liquid running down the back of his throat. He took one of the other glasses and passed it to Nightingale.

‘I think,’ Nightingale said, ‘once we’ve met with Mr Bull, we should perhaps retire for the night.’

‘Agreed,’ Jonas said, not sure that he was actually enjoying the drink. The bitterness seemed to increase the more that he drank. Judging by Nightingale’s grimace, he too felt the same way.

‘Perhaps not,’ Nightingale said, setting the drink down on the table. He abruptly ran a hand to his chest and began to rub it. His face suggested that he was in pain.

Then, before Jonas could ask if he was alright, a tightening in his own chest and throat occurred. He released the glass in his hand, sending it smashing to the floor, as he reached out for the nearest chair to steady himself.

Nightingale’s terrified eyes met with his, neither one of them able to speak.

As the pain and tightening increased, so his pulse raced out of control, thundering in his chest like nothing which he had ever felt before. His breathing had reduced to a wheezing rasp and he fell to his knees.

The door opened beside him, just as Nightingale collapsed to the floor, his legs and arms jittering around of their own dancing desire.

His hands flailed between his neck and chest as he gasped for one last breath. In his peripheral vision, he saw her standing in the doorway, watching, waiting for the inevitability which was surely seconds away.

Jonas Blackwood’s final thought was to wish for the acute thrashing pain in his chest to stop.

Ann Fothergill stepped calmly into the room. Behind her James Carter hobbled on his crutch. She closed the door and ran the bolt across into the hole in the frame.

‘Gracious-heart-alive,’ James said. ‘What in the good Lord’s name did you be a-giving those men?’

‘Strophanthin,’ Ann replied. ‘A poison.’

‘Yeah, I be a-getting that, Ann.’

‘It comes from boiling the leaves of the Acokanthera schimperi plant found in East Africa.’

‘And where do you be getting such a thing?’ he asked.

‘My sort-of stepfather was an apothecary,’ she said simply, hoping that her answer would provide a suitable enough explanation. The real answer was protracted and not especially interesting. Herbs, spices, drugs, plant extracts came from a myriad of sources: some from the streets of the capital; some from an indirect route across the Continent. This particular plant extract had reached England via a slave ship, returning from Africa laden with tobacco and sugar, and had been dealt to Ann by the dubious